East of the Shadows

"We can only hope that he will never ask," returned Philippa gently. "It will be much happier for him if he takes everything just as it is, and doesn't puzzle over anything. The doctor tells me he is not fit to talk very much--that he must be kept absolutely quiet. I am only to go and sit with him, and not to talk more than I can help. Will you give my best love to Marion, and do not let her worry about anything here? She has so much to trouble her as it is. I do hope you will be able to give me better news soon."

"Let me know if you want me, or if there is any change," he said as they parted. "I will come at any time."

Philippa spent the afternoon in her own room with the dispatch-box by her side, going systematically through the contents.

These consisted of two packets of letters, one very small, merely some half-dozen in all, tied round with a faded piece of pink ribbon--Phil's letters to Francis. The other a thick bundle held together by a piece of red tape--his letters to her.

A small cardboard box containing a ring--a half-hoop of diamonds--a glove, and a bunch of violets faded and dry almost beyond recognition, yet faintly fragrant. A pitiful collection truly, telling plainly of a love story of other days.

Philippa read the letters with a shrinking at her heart, and yet it was absolutely necessary that she should learn all there was to know as to the relations in which these two had stood, the one to the other--not before the public, but in their intimate revealings. Those of the man were closely written and long--outpourings of an affection which carried all before it. The earlier ones--for Philippa placed them in consecutive order--were full, brimful, of joy, of triumph and satisfaction; but in the later ones, while affection was in no way lessened, there was something of appeal--or so it seemed to her as she studied them. An undercurrent as it were of longing, a desire to make the recipient understand the depth of love--to get below the surface, to obtain some deeper expression of confidence in return.

This was particularly evident in one letter. The writer commenced by imploring pardon for some offence which had been unintentional. He dwelt upon the strength of his love--of his desire for her happiness. Would she ever understand what she was to him--what his love meant? and so on, and so on. A deep sincerity burnt in every line. And Philippa turned to the other packet, to find, if she could, the answer; for it was such a letter as must have drawn a reply in the same strain from the woman to whom it was addressed. It was an appeal from the heart, such as no woman with any love for the writer could withstand.